


got a flaming heart (can't get my fill)

by orphan_account



Category: Megadeth, Metallica
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Tender Sex, is this self-indulgent? maybe, james' emotions fucking with his head, lars as the long-suffering voice of reason, making a mixtape to express ur feelings instead of actually talking, other characters that im too lazy to tag, the rituals: they are intricate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: James stomps his cleats into the grass, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. With the sun against his back, the salt of sweat and sunflower seeds in his mouth, it feels as if he’s hardly been gone.───or: almost 10.9k words of metallica playing baseball and also some love (actually more love than baseball)
Relationships: James Hetfield/Jason Newsted, Kirk Hammett/Dave Mustaine, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	got a flaming heart (can't get my fill)

**Author's Note:**

> wow. this is... mess. award for the dumbest thing ive ever written. anyways enjoy ? i guess??
> 
> 1) timeline is,,, nebulous. im gonna say around '86, so imagine appearances mostly like that (except for dave cause 90s dave was way better lol)
> 
> 2) i do not know a lot about baseball lmao literally everything i know is from tv and a couple minor league games (think like hometown baseball) a lot of these teams are based on actual ones, the dates are off but! this is fiction and i can do whatever i want.
> 
> 3) title from black dog by led zeppelin cause im entirely predictable like that
> 
> 4) enjoy some background kirk/dave
> 
> 5) made some edits cause i realized ao3 fucked up some of my formatting :-(

It’s the first practice of the new season, and as soon as James sees Jason, he dislikes him immediately.

James is used to Californian springs, knows how the mornings start off cool and dewey with the wind that rolls in off the bay before the sun climbs up in the sky, the day drying out and leaving a breeze that tickles against the back of one’s neck. 

The sun beats down across his shoulders, warming his skin through the cotton practice shirt; he’s had enough experience with the heat to know not to layer a long-sleeve shirt underneath. James knows how the sweat will pool along his shoulder blades and stick both shirts together, but it’s obvious Jason hasn’t, and he sticks out like a sore thumb standing beside Dave and their coach near the mound.

Jason’s a good four inches shorter than Dave and scrawny in comparison. He’s also the only unfamiliar face around.

James watches him, scrutinizes how he accepts introductions with a polite handshake and quiet pleasantries, and thinks _fuck_. He’s familiar with this whole song-and-dance: the player who’s only here so they can move up, who thinks they’re too good for the minors. James _hates_ those players, how they treat their team like a springboard for bigger things, who think they’re _above_ him. 

James grits his teeth, staring at the plane of Jason’s shoulders as they stretch, taking in the curve of his cheek and his focused, closed-off expression, serious as he follows Cliff’s instruction. It’s enough to make a little coil of annoyance burn in his stomach- who the fuck does this guy think he _is_?

The annoyance is heavy in his gut when Coach finally lets them break from stretching, yelling at them to get their asses in gear, and it’s still burning by the time he makes it to the dugout and hisses to Cliff, “Jesus, what did that guy have for breakfast this morning, carnation instant bitch?”

Cliff shakes his head. “Give him a break, Het. I’m sure he’s just nervous playing for a new team and all.” 

James rolls his eyes, ‘cause like, he doesn’t need Cliff chewing him out for being _a judgy asshole_ , as Kirk would call it. Whatever. He scowls and takes a swig from his water bottle, grabbing his glove and jogging back into the field. 

It’s funny being back in the uniform again. It’s been a while, his pants still a little tight around the thighs, just like last year, and his cleats are definitely a little loose. But it feels like home, in a way, and it’ll only take a couple practices for the muscle memory to return fully, for everything to feel like a second skin. He gazes up at the sky- picture-perfect blue, gentle drifts of clouds moving in the corner of his eye. He’s sweating, can feel it against the small of his back already.

James stomps his cleats into the grass, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. With the sun against his back, the salt of sweat and sunflower seeds in his mouth, it feels as if he’s hardly been gone. He readjusts his glove and waits for the other players to run out.

Lars shoots him a big smirk and then wags his tongue, jogging out a good twenty paces and then turning around once he’s straight across from him. Lars is a good second, quick on the ball, but he’s a devilishly fast runner around the bases and isn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with the refs if they call him out, a trait that drives their coach apeshit. 

Kirk and Cliff partner up next to them. Kirk’s an outfielder, but he’s also a strong batter, and James is secretly impressed by his ability to roll with the punches so well and make both roles look easy. Cliff’s their catcher and captain, an absolutely unshakeable and powerful rallying force both on and off the field, the reason he was made captain in the first place.

They start off with warm-up tosses. Down the field on his left, past Nick and Marty, James can see Dave and Jason tossing the ball to each other. _Must be a new pitcher_ , James thinks.

Dave is their strongest pitcher, and he’s got an absolutely _lethal_ fastball. He’d gotten up to the major leagues a couple years ago, played a few starter games for the Giants, and then torn his shoulder, ending up back in triple-A after rehab. And while Dave’s regained a lot of his original prowess, James figures Jason must be a safety net of sorts, a backup should anything go wrong again.

There’s a good chunk of returning players, back from other leagues, that he’d never had the chance to get familiar with since he’d only been playing for a few years. But Jason’s a completely fresh face, sticking out in his layered shirts and blue ball cap. James is curious, admittedly; apparently he came up from the California League, although that’s the extent to which James knows anything about this guy. 

Coach decides that intrasquad is the way to start up for the season, calling them in from the dugout after a water break. James takes his place at third base, Lars standing on his left at second, Marty taking first and Jeff sliding into his place as shortstop. Out in the field, Kirk jokes with Nick and Junior as they spread out.

Dave steps up to the mound, shaking his arms out, rolling his shoulders. Tom’s at bat, exaggeratedly swinging, stirring up laughter and chirps. They play through a bit, settling into a familiar routine as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

There’s a gnarly hit from Kerry that barrels straight to James’ right. He dives, hand extended, crashing into the ground and ending up with dirt smudged across his chin. He’s somehow managed to catch the ball, though, and it makes the temporary pain in his shoulder disappear. He swipes the ball blindly up to Jeff, who throws it to Marty, tagging Kerry out. Lars whoops and thumps him on the back as James pulls himself onto his feet, smoothing out his now-wrinkled-and-dirty white pants. Coach calls for a switch, and Lars and Kirk laugh at the dirt on his face as the three of them approach first base.

Jason’s pitching now, rotating his arm, adjusting his cap over his hair and shuffling his feet into the dirt. Lars is up first, settling into position at the plate, tapping the corner with his bat and bringing it up over his shoulder. 

It goes silent, the only noise the honks from traffic in the distance and the seagulls in the parking lot squawking. 

Jason brings the ball up, raises his knee. It’s surprisingly graceful, a far cry from Dave’s brute-force style of pitching. Jason brings his arm down, and James is glad he times his blink right, because the ball moves so fast he hardly sees it go.

_Goddamn._

It shoots right past Lars into Cliff’s glove. “Shit!” Lars scowls, shuffling and getting back into position. Curveball; Lars makes contact, rushes to first base. Junior’s turn; screwball, curveball, fastball, out. Kirk goes; makes it to first, Lars to second. 

James is up now. Across the field, Jason spins the ball and raises the glove to his cheek. James gets his bat over his shoulder, feels everything narrow down to this pinprick moment. He can feel the beat of his heart, hear the rush of blood in his ears. James barely catches the ball going right past him. He grits his teeth, mutters _fuck!_ under his breath, gets into position again.

Jason's eyes are steely- he's intimidating, despite being maybe 5’9 on a good day and lean as hell. James closes his eyes, visualizes the ball sent flying by his hit. Lets out a breath. Jason brings his arm up, leans back-

The ball cracks against the bat, careening across the dusky sky into the stands across the field. His first home run of the season, and James feels his blood absolutely _sing_ in his veins as he loops around the diamond, high-fiving his teammates who're hollering and cheering. When he makes it back to home plate, he catches Jason smiling at him. It's a huge smile, a big 1000-watt grin, all dimples. Jason laughs, “ _Fuck_ yeah, James,” and catches an extra ball their coach throws to him.

Something squirms in James’ stomach. Jason's talented as _fuck_ , knows his name, and is definitely no stuck-up asshole. Like, okay, so maybe his mind changed about Jason: sue him.

***

Things settle into a comfortable rhythm, each day bringing further drills and late-night practices and blisters and sore arms. James lets himself fall back into routine, savouring the burn of his muscles as he pushes himself harder, driving to be better, expecting the strain and stress as they begin preparing for games.

What James doesn’t expect is for Jason to slide into place beside him one afternoon, crossing his arms and stretching as coach gives them a runthrough of the warmup routine. Turns out Lars, his regular partner, is nowhere to be found. Don't get him wrong, though. He- _maybe-_ likes that Jason wants to partner up with him, wants to hang out, but he refuses to analyze his emotions any more than that.

The tosses Jason starts up with are a bit farther than he’s used to, but the burn in his arm feels good, makes him feel _alive_. It’s like a spark has ignited under his skin, the way him and Jason seem to silently communicate, each pushing the other harder and harder, throwing faster and faster until they're breathless with laughter as their competition comes to an abrupt stop when James misjudges and the ball goes sailing over Jason’s head deep into the field.

Coach divides them into various groups to work on skills after a water break at the dugout; James watches how Jason tips his head back to drink, hair curling over his shoulders, little droplets of water sliding down the column of his neck. James looks away, flustered, grabbing his glove and cap in a haste and nearly upsetting his own water bottle.

James ends up spending some time in the batting cage with Kirk, reloading baskets of balls into the machine until his shoulders are tight and hot. He watches Kirk’s form: Kirk’s a little guy, but he’s deceptively strong. It’s like his position is disarming, all relaxed and fluid, and yet undeniably powerful all the same, a shock for rivals every time they think they've got him figured out. It’s hilarious to watch.

James stares at the scattered balls across the dirt. Kirk frowns. Neither of them have the energy or will to clean them up again, and Kirk throws himself onto the ground with a sigh. James joins him, resigning himself to an ass-print of dirt on his pants.

Across the field, Jason and Dave are practicing their pitches with Cliff, laughing and joking with each other. James feels his jaw work.

Kirk giggles. James fixes him with a frown. “What's so funny?” 

Kirk just shrugs his shoulders, shit-eating grin on his face, fucked-up teeth on full display. “Nothing, dude, don't worry about it. Let's clean up and swap, you should get some practice in too.” 

They end with a quick game, the night cooling down. James gets wrangled into helping coach finish up some last-minute photocopies in the disgusting office, too slow to escape to the parking lot. The office smells like burnt leftovers and sweaty shoes and he wrinkles his nose as a stack of files are shoved into his unwilling arms. “Important for my records,” Coach tells him, sending James off to the photocopier and slamming the office door behind him.

He's done a good thirty minutes later, walking into the parking lot. There's someone sitting on one of the concrete barriers, smoking. When he looks closer, he sees it's Jason.

Jason recognizes him, waves him over with a big grin. He's perky, scooting over so James can sit with him. “Hey man,” Jason smiles, passing the cig. 

“Hey yourself,” James murmurs, taking a drag and letting the smoke drift from his mouth. “Waiting for a ride home?” he asks, flicking the ash off the end of the cigarette before passing it back.

Jason nods. He stretches, tossing his hair back, “Yeah, my roommate was supposed to be here like, forty minutes ago.” He laughs, rubbing at his eye. “You too?”

“Yup,” James sighs, scuffing his sneakers across the asphalt. “Don’t let Coach catch you smoking. He’ll kick your ass.”

Jason chokes on an inhale, giggling loudly. It makes his nose scrunch up, and all his dimples return in full force. “Fuck- alright, it’s pretty much done anyways,” Jason laughs silently, grinding the butt into the concrete barrier before chucking it into the trash can. 

It goes quiet, only the sounds of distant traffic and their breathing. 

“I'm really glad to be here, you know?” 

Even in the dimming light, James can see the raw honesty across Jason's face, the slight apprehension at revealing himself. James nods, feeling his tongue tie itself in knots. 

“Yeah?” He’s amazed he can get that little out, voice gentle. Jason smiles, warm and intimate. James hasn't gotten a real good look at him, not yet, hasn't had the opportunity to stare without question. He's taking advantage of the moment, now.

Jason's face is soft, curved, and yet he's got a strong chin and sharp edges as well, thin lips and a disarmingly blinding smile. One tooth is crooked, but it works, looks good on him. Curly bangs block his eyes just slightly, all steely-blue but soft, looking up at James. 

James feels his face pink up, glad the streetlights are behind him so Jason shouldn't be able to tell. He can feel his heart speed up, that tell-tale flutter in his guts. 

Jason nods, leaning in towards him. The orangey-glow from the streetlight dances across his lips. “Yeah, I really like it here, you know? Things weren't going so great in the California League. But, I dunno, I've got this like, sense that it's gonna work out here, and like, I'm glad I met you, man.”

James’ mouth goes dry. He just nods, smiles, bumps Jason's shoulder with his own. Jason smiles back.

***

James tugs his jersey over his shoulders, fiddling with the buttons. It’s their first big game of the season. James can feel the tension in his chest, the way his heart constricts at the distant roar of the crowd each time someone opens the door. They’re all jittery, trying to let the stress bleed out before they hit the field, stretching and talking quietly. It’s been months since they've played a game due to the offseason, and while James cant wait to get back out there again, his pre-game nerves are shot to hell.

The locker room is a sea of cream and red. Their jerseys are freshly washed, ready for a new season. Each proudly bears the word _GRIZZLIES_ across the front in bold red lettering, thin red stripes across the fabric, little red buttons up the front strip. They’re old as hell cause they haven't had the money to spring for new ones.

James grabs his glove. In the left corner of the locker room, Jason’s fiddling with his cleats, double-knotting his laces. They’re blue, light blue, with white laces. _Newsted,_ emblazoned across his shoulders, warps as the fabric twists with his movements. 

Coach enters the locker room; any sparse chatter dies away, replaced by absolute silence. Their nervousness is a palpable thing, tangible in the heavy, tense air of the locker room. 

He claps his hands together; it’s like a shotgun blast in the oppressive quiet. “Right. We’re playing Sacramento; we’ve had enough practice with their style, know what to expect. Stay on the ball, watch their bunts, they’re notorious for flipping it on us.” There's a chorus of hums at that _._ Coach nods, “And don’t let them steal bases, keep an eye on them when they’re inching away from the plate. Now let’s go crush those fuckers!”

They cheer, grabbing their helmets, filing out and up the hallway. The noise of the crowd echoes, bouncing off the concrete, getting louder until it reaches a fever pitch once they burst onto the field. The stands are a mix of red and black shirts, an equal split between fans of the Fresno Grizzlies and the Sacramento River Cats. James brings his hand up over his eyes, blocking the bright lights of the overheads. _Fuck,_ it’s good to be back. 

The commentators introduce them as they file into their dugout: _Cliff Burton, number 29; Dave Mustaine, number 68; James Hetfield, number 35; Jason Newsted, number 55; Kirk Hammett, number-_

“We’re batting first! Burton, Araya, Hammett, go get lined up first. The rest of you, file in somewhere behind. Move it!” Coach shouts, chewing on the end of his pen as he writes in his playbook.

James shoves his helmet on, jogging onto the field to cheers as they file into line. The leather of his gloves already feel clammy against his hands. He squirms into line next to Jason, who’s fiddling with the strap of his helmet and looking increasingly pale, and James feels a surge of sympathy for him. 

“Hey man, don’t worry, we’re gonna kick their asses,” He mutters, leaning in slightly so Jason can hear him clearly. 

Jason grins, the worry fading from his expression. He bumps his fist against James’, smile returning in full force. “ _Fuck yeah_ ,” Jason’s voice is sharp and hot, and it sets James on fire.

Right from the beginning, the mood of the game is set. The pitcher hits Kirk with a fastball, knocking him to the ground. James winces, his teammates clamouring and crying for River Cat blood. The crowd boos and shouts as Kirk makes his way to first base. The pitcher’s arguing with the ref, shouting that it was an accident. 

“Bullshit!” Dave yells, “that was on fucking purpose, he hit Kirk right in the chest!” 

_Bullshit is right_ , James thinks.

It’s a fast, gnarly game, full of quick saves and fly balls and narrow dodges. His team’s bristling, pissed and desperate to crush their rivals. They manage to secure a 3-1 lead in the fifth inning, but it’s greasy as hell. They’re catching fouls left and right thanks to the refs, who are without a doubt on Sacramento’s side. James can tell it’s beginning to grate on his team, their collective frustrations mounting.

Cliff calls them into a huddle at the beginning of the sixth inning. 

“We gotta keep our heads,” he starts, gesturing to the field, “‘cause if we get pissed, we’re gonna get sloppy and lose our lead. Let’s chill out and play real clean so we can hopefully get those fuckin’ refs off our backs.” They murmur their agreement, pumping their fists one-two-three in a circle with a cheer of _Grizzlies!_ before taking to the field once again.

The River Cats get another point, bumping it 3-2. James sees the anxiety build up once again, like a pot about to boil over. They manage to stack the bases in the seventh inning, though, and then Cliff gets a homer, the ball rocketing into the stands. 

James’ team explodes, cheering and rushing onto the field to surround Cliff once he finishes his lap. They’re jumping and yelling, piled into one another. The first win of the season; it sparks something under their skin, a fire that only needs more fuel to burn bright and consume everything. Right beside him, Jason’s laughing, turning to grin at him and mouthing _you were right_ : the cheering of the crowd, of his teammates, fades away in James’ ears.

Everything disappears, his world narrowing to this moment, only Jason’s smile in his eyes.

***

James is pretty sure the forecast this morning only called for a 30% chance of rain by the evening, although the heavy cloud cover and muggy weather had been expected. He’d watched the news while getting dressed, wandering in and out of his bedroom to catch snippets from the anchors before bolting out of the house because he was going to be late for work. 

Practice had started off the same as it always does: laps around the field, stretches led by Cliff, a series of warmup drills. They'd just started up some batting practice when there'd been a sudden, deafening clap of thunder. The sky had opened thirty seconds later, rain bucketing down.

“S _hit!_ Get to the dugout!” 

So now they’re huddled under the awning, watching as the torrential rain turns the field into a veritable mud pit. Thunder rattles the stands. Intermittent flashes of lightning lick across the sky and light up the heavy, dark rain clouds that ominously blanket the horizon. Since there’s nothing to do, they talk and eat sunflower seeds, helmets chucked unceremoniously across the dirt floor. James seizes the opportunity to sit next to Jason, squeezing onto the wooden bench beside Dave. Jason grins at him. 

“I didn’t think it was gonna rain today,” Jason says, passing him the bag of sunflower seeds, barbecue flavoured. James shakes out a handful, popping them into his mouth before handing the bag over to Dave.

James nods, “Coach’s gonna have a conniption if this doesn’t let up soon.” Jason laughs, passing him a paper cup to spit the shells into. 

So they sit for a good twenty minutes, the rain finally petering out. _Or not_ , James thinks a couple minutes later, because there’s another crack of thunder and the rain starts up once again.

“ _FOR FUCK’S SAKE_!”

Coach sends them home early, grumbling about _piss-poor weather_ and _the fucking mudpit of a field._ James grimaces. His truck’s in the shop, and he definitely doesn’t want to have to take the bus in this weather: a look in his bag reveals that he’s only got loose change tucked in a side pocket, definitely not enough for the fare. So he’s out of a ride. _Shit_.

He draws out showering up and packing his bag, hoping to kill some time. When he finally wanders out to the parking lot, it’s 8:19. It’s still raining, drops splattering heavily onto the pavement. He waits under the awning by the entrance, kicking stray pebbles and cigarette butts.

“Hey man, need a ride?” 

James turns around; Jason’s right by the doors, carrying his bag over one shoulder, hair slightly damp and curling up once again. 

James nods, “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.” His voice is weak, but Jason doesn’t seem to notice, digging his car keys out of his jean pockets and grinning at him, almost conspiratorially.

“Ready to make a run for it?”

They’re soaking wet by the time they make it to Jason’s old green Camaro, laughing as they throw their bags into the trunk and dive into the front seats.

“Fuck, my hair’s gonna be so frizzy,” Jason gripes, scrubbing at his hair with an old shirt from the back seats to get rid of some of the moisture before passing it over to James and starting up the car with a roar. James takes the shirt: it smells like detergent and cologne, a soft hint of spice and fruit. It smells like _Jason,_ sweet and sharp. James feels his heart do a flip, gingerly drying his hair and avoiding breathing in, ‘cause otherwise he’s gonna have a problem.

Jason fiddles with the tape deck as they pull out of the lot. “Cool, so where d’you live? Hopefully we can miss the traffic on the 33.” The cassette crackles as Jason skips ahead, flicking on the windshield wipers and turning onto the main road.

James tells him the address, focusing on the drops that run down across the glass, pooling along the bottom and spraying out across the hood. The guitar fades in, soft bluesy notes, drums crashing before taking up a steady beat. Jason’s tapping his fingers gently to the rhythm, merging into traffic.

“Zeppelin?”

Jason grins at him, “Yeah, I’ve been on a kick for a while. You wanna listen to something else? I’ve got some other tapes in the glovebox.” 

James shakes his head. The song Jason picked fits really fucking well with the mood, Robert Plant’s crooning mixing with the steady clattering of raindrops on the roof of the car as they drive in relative silence.

_Said I've been crying, yeah_

_Oh, my tears they fell like rain_

“You always lived here?”

James surprises himself, speaking up all of a sudden. He usually hates small-talk, but he’s genuinely curious, eyes trained on Jason’s expression.

Jason shakes his head, “Nah, I grew up in Michigan. Battle Creek. I’d gotten an offer to move up to the California league a few years ago.” Jason pauses, focusing to switch lanes on the highway. “My parents weren’t too happy about it, but it was what I wanted, you know? They knew I wanted to make the majors some day, and if me going away was what it took, then, you know, they were behind it.”

James hums. He wonders what it would have been like, to travel cross-country in your early twenties, leaving behind your whole family just to chase some dream. To believe that you’re gonna make it, to trust yourself wholly and to take the jump, unafraid of the unknown. 

“California’s got nicer weather and it's not all hicks, anyways,” Jason smirks, and James feels a laugh tear out of his chest, all warm and free.

By the time they pull up to James’ apartment, they’ve switched the tape: _Rolling Stones, Goats Head Soup._ James slams the trunk closed after he grabs his bag. 

“Thanks, Jase. See you tomorrow?” 

Jason waves, revving the car. “See ya, James.”

James watches as he takes off down the street, stays even as the rain pours down on him, until Jason’s tail-lights disappear in the darkness.

***

They’re playing the Rainiers, fierce and driven and unwilling to give them even an inch. 

The road trip had objectively sucked, roads slippery with rain. Kirk had spent much of it puking in a bucket across the aisle from James, so _anything’s_ an improvement over that.

But this exceeds his expectations by far. They’re absolutely crushing it, getting under the other team’s skin, running laps around them. Jason’s on _fire_ : his pitching’s _so_ fucking good. He strikes their opponents out constantly, a solid presence on the field, so fluidly in sync with Cliff and everyone at the bases.

They win, 5-0. James lets Jason’s elation wash over him, that blinding smile lighting him up.

***

Jason convinces him to get burgers late after practice. (It actually didn't take him that much convincing- Jason had been drying his hair with a towel and had asked _Burgers_? and James had immediately agreed while simultaneously hoping that he didn't come off as too eager. He’d kinda failed.)

So they’re in some greasy burger joint at eleven at night, sitting by the jukebox in the back and fiddling with the selections which are pretty fucking sparse, looking over the upcoming schedule and laughing when James spills his ketchup all over the ground.

They sit on the curb once they’re done, sharing a smoke. They can just barely hear the music from out here, Fleetwood Mac drifting quietly, Stevie’s voice breathy.

_It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams_

_And have you any dreams you'd like to sell?_

***

James kicks his blankets off, unable to sleep. 

There's a roiling heat in his gut. His dick throbs as he rolls over onto his back, the loss of friction causing a surge of _want_. He reaches a hand down and slips his fingers under the waistband of his boxers.

“Ah- fuck.”

He bites his lip, not wanting to wake his roommate up. James trails his fingers under the head, giving a good squeeze and twist. His mind drifts as the coil of pleasure in his base of his stomach winds tighter and tighter with each pass of his hand. 

They're pretty standard jerk-off fantasies: girls with big tits, pretty blondes sucking his dick, the works. Until they're not.

Suddenly, all he can think about is Jason a week ago in the showers, smooth skin and lean muscle as the water had sluiced down his back, heavy curls trailing between his shoulder blades. James had noticed he'd had a smattering of freckles across his shoulders and across the small of his back, right around surprisingly dainty dimples: dimples of Venus, he’s pretty sure. James remembers, with shocking clarity, the want to _touch_ , to trail his fingers across them and maybe his lips, too.

His hand’s a blur across his dick, twisting under the head, feeling that hot rush through his veins. His breath hitches as he rubs the pad of his thumb across the slit, a soft moan bubbling up. 

He imagines Jason on his knees, sucking his dick, pretty little lips all swollen with spit. He imagines fucking him from behind, pulling that curly hair until he moans, wondering if he'd beg for it, raspy voice all broken, saying _please, yeah, fuck, more-_

His orgasm hits him like a train wreck, all shuddery and _hot_.

Later, when his breathing’s returned to normal and his brain’s caught up, no longer in limbo, he wipes himself down with a spare t-shirt before collapsing back into the covers. His mind keeps replaying his fantasies, Jason’s flushed face behind his eyelids. James throws his arm over his face, groaning as he turns over.

He silently berates himself. Like, he’d known he was kinda fucked up over Jason, but jacking off to him? James is pretty sure his brain’s gotten some wires crossed.

 _Fuck_. 

***

James can’t pinpoint the exact moment their friendship suddenly solidified to something more. 

Like, sure, they'd partnered up for warmups and talked at games and stuff like that in the beginning, but slowly it's become a thing where they grab lunch together after practices, or go for morning runs, and James silently revels in it. It makes something hot spark in his gut, the fact that Jason wants to hang out with him all the time, wants to grab tacos from a food truck parked outside the stadium or go to a record store together and pick out tapes with each other and grab coffee in the mornings from the little coffee store on the corner, black with two sugars for him and a cafe latte for Jason.

They've become a duo, a pair. Suddenly it's not just _James_ and _Jason_ but _JamesandJason_ and _JasonandJames_ , one never far from the other. Their synchronicity extends to the field: each knows where the other is all the time, without even looking. James can throw blindly and Jason will always be there to catch it, to tag people out lightning-fast. James suspects the rest of the team must notice how they’ve suddenly become attached at the hip. 

His suspicions are confirmed when Lars tracks him down one day as he’s pinning up game schedules on the corkboard outside the stadium for Coach. 

“What’s up with you and Jase?”

Lars is never one to beat around the bush: painfully blunt and dogged, Lars’ll needle him for answers until James finally gives in. It is, without a doubt, James decides, Lars’ most annoying quality.

“Hi to you too,” James deadpans, pointedly ignoring Lars’ question. “You wanna help me out?”

Lars doesn’t answer, but he does grab the stack of sheets off the ground and passes them over one at a time so James can pin them up.

“You didn’t answer me.” 

Lars’ voice is sharp. Privately, James is impressed Lars’ patience allowed him to wait even a couple minutes. James rolls his eyes, “What are you talking about?”

Lars snorts in frustration. “ _For helvede_ , James, you know exactly what I mean. You, Jason, together all the time. You’re like conjoined twins.”

James isn’t sure what to say. “We’re- friends.” He says cautiously, as if afraid to jinx it. 

Lars seems to take in his hesitance, the slight stutter to his words. “There’s more, isn't there.” He says, unwaveringly certain. 

Lars is perceptive: even though he talks enough for the whole team, he picks up a lot from what others _don't_ say. It used to unnerve James, slightly, how Lars seemed to know exactly what he meant, but now it’s a reassurance, almost. Absolves him of having to put his feelings into words, and all that shit.

Focusing on lining up the corners of the papers, James nods, too embarrassed to look away.

"I thought so,” Lars hums. “You really like him, don't you.”

It’s not a question. James never thought it would be.

“Yeah.” His voice cracks halfway through, but it’s finally out there, for real.

“Have you said anything?” Lars questions, grabbing the stapler. Of course he jumps straight to the core of the issue.

James shakes his head. 

“Why not?

James sighs, frustrated. “I don’t wanna fuck anything up, you know?” 

And it’s true: he doesn’t even _know_ if Jason would be receptive. It might kill him if his confession fucks up their friendship to the point where there’s nothing to be salvaged and they’ll become awkward acquaintances. He can't risk ruining things over a _crush_.

Lars ponders this. “Why don't you get him something? Test the waters, a little.”

James turns the suggestion over in his mind, analyzing it, visualizing all the different outcomes.

“Sometimes your ideas are pretty good,” he murmurs, pinning up the last poster and chucking away a tangled ball of masking tape left-over from the previous schedules.

Lars grins, all sharp. “Course they are, I’m smart as _fuck_.”

James laughs and punches Lars’ shoulder.

***

Cliff corners him after early-morning practice with an offer of lunch on his dime. James isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s been spending a lot more money lately, and he’s not making nearly enough washing plates at the Keg to keep up.

They end up at a mom-and-pop-style diner nearby that’s entirely too generous with their servings, popular in the neighbourhood for their milkshakes which are a meal in themselves. Dave and Kirk are already in the booth towards the back, poring over the menus. 

Cliff pushes James in when he's too slow to sit. “Move your ass, Hetfield, goddamn. I’m so hungry.”

James gets two burgers and a massive plate of onion rings; Cliff gets a chili dog and cheese fries; Dave and Kirk get cheeseburgers and milkshakes, stealing fries and onion rings periodically. It’s fucking _delicious_ , greasy and filling and it kinda makes James guilty for pigging out until he remembers that he’s just gonna work it all off tomorrow at practice anyway.

“So,” Cliff says, once they’ve all finished and are considering dessert, “Jase. What do you guys think?”

Kirk looks up from his menu, taking a considering sip from his shake before answering, “Mmm, I think he’s cool. He’s a nice guy, y’know? What do you think, James?” At that, Kirk giggles slightly.

James frowns. The three of them are grinning at him, trying not to laugh. It hits him suddenly, what they’re insinuating, and then he’s sure he goes bright red, ‘cause his face _burns_. His friends cackle.

“Hey, fuck you guys,” James groans. He’s _embarrassed_ as _fuck,_ but mostly he can’t believe they’re like, _interrogating_ him about it. It took him long enough to even admit to _himself_ that he likes Jason. Like, a _lot._ Like, no, this isn’t a goddamn crush, anymore, like, he kinda wants to hang out with Jason all the time and make him a mixtape and hold his hand and- _maybe-_ kiss him.

“Alright, you two, leave him alone,” Cliff says, chucking a spare fry at Dave and Kirk, who’re still laughing.

James scrubs at his face. Maybe if he wishes hard enough he’ll just be able to sink straight through the floor and escape this mortifying ordeal. 

“Hey, wait,” James says, suddenly pissed, “did you just invite me out to corner me about Jason? And why are they here?!” He hisses, pointing at Kirk and Dave, who have the audacity to look offended. 

Cliff shakes his head. “No way, man. I invited you out, because you are an esteemed friend of mine, and I cherish our relationship, dude. And because it was obvious. They’re just nosy fuckers, unfortunately.”

James huffs out a laugh at Kirk’s squawk of feigned-anger. His frustration’s mostly diffused: Cliff’s always been good at damage control. He sighs, rubbing at his cheeks that still feel hot, but less like raging-inferno-embarrassed and more like silently-mortified-embarrassed. 

“Like-” he starts. He doesn’t have the balls to look at anyone as he says this. “Like, okay. Is it that obvious?”

Cliff hums. “Yeah, kinda.” 

James groans, covering his eyes and throwing his head back against the booth.

“Be honest with him, James,” Kirk says quietly, and James uncovers his eyes so he can see Kirk’s gentle grin. Kirk’s probably the best when it comes to advice like this: James knows Kirk will always be genuine. “Jason's a good guy. I think you'll find it'll work out okay.” Kirk smiles at him, genuinely reassuring.

“Don't pussy out,” Dave chimes in, taking an obnoxious sip from his milkshake. 

James rolls his eyes. 

“Hey, man,” Cliff drawls, “I seem to remember _someone_ dancing around Kirk for ages, coming up to us and being all _‘Fuck, he's cute_ ’ and _‘Man, he's totally outta my league'_ all the time before he worked up the balls to say anything.” Cliff smirks, taking a sip from his drink.

To his credit, Dave barely blushes. “Yeah, but like, it was totally true, man.” 

Kirk gasps, “You thought you were out of my league?! No way!! You're like, _so_ hot, and…”

James sighs. Cliff bumps his shoulder, “Don't worry so much, dude. Things’ll be fine.”

James hopes so, too.

***

Practice is long and miserable, filled with drills and punishing workouts. By the end, James just kind of wants to crawl into bed and sleep for a couple weeks. Coach is working them over extra hard since the playoffs start next week: they're in a good spot, 15 wins to 7 losses, but obviously Coach thinks they could be better. Privately, James thinks that their coach can get bent. He fucking _hates_ sprint drills. 

Lars groans, dragging himself towards the bench in the dugout and throwing himself down, knocking over James’ water bottle. James doesn't even bitch Lars out: he’s too tired to even care anymore.

“Fuck, my muscles feel like they’ve been liquified.” Jason groans, digging in his bag for his water bottle.

Lars gives him a pointed look with Jason’s back to them, a look that screams _what the fuck are you waiting for?_

James mouths back _soon, it’s fine._

***

Jason shows up late, just as they're all getting dressed for practice.

“Traffic jam on the I-85,” he says apologetically to Cliff, who claps him on the shoulder with an _it's cool_ before he heads out of the locker room, chatting with Junior and Marty about some new plans for batting practice and an arrangement for an intrasquad game.

Jason throws his bag down beside James'. He's wearing torn-up jeans and a too-big Rolling Stones t-shirt. It looks cozy and comfortable, a lazy sort of put-together. Fleetingly, James wonders if Jason would look small in his t-shirts, if the sleeves would continually slip down his wrists and he’d have to shove them up. 

He wonders if Jason would wear his shirt after spending the night, all sleepy in between his covers. James feels his heart jump into his throat and he ducks out of the locker room before he embarrasses himself.

So he’d taken Lars’ advice and made Jason a tape. Put all his favourite songs into it, even the secret ones, the softer love songs that make him think about Jason. He’d taken the time to hand-letter it, practicing on spare paper to ensure his hand would be steady. _God_ , he’s got it so bad: he hopes the subliminal messaging works. 

He's anxious and distracted throughout practice. It's like the anticipation and fear of giving Jason his gift has compounded, forming a heavy wad of fucked-up feelings right in his gut. He operates on muscle-memory alone, everything else fading to a background blur. Cliff must notice something's up, because he asks quietly if James is alright while they're taking a water break. James just nods, as lucidly as he can manage since all his brainpower is currently occupied worrying about Jason, and whether he'll like it, and _oh god he'll think it's stupid he's probably not even into you and_ …

James thinks he's gonna puke. 

By some miracle he makes it through practice, nearly vibrating out of his skin as he waits by the front doors. Jason got pulled aside by Coach to look over some pitching strategies for the next game, so he'll probably be out in fifteen minutes. James picks at his fingers, scraping at a hangnail with increasing ferocity as his gut churns.

Jason pushes open the glass doors, smiling once he sees James there. “Jesus, remind me never to go into Coach’s office again. Smells like something died in there,” he laughs, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

James laughs, but it feels pinched by his nerves. Jason must notice, because he looks at James, brows furrowing.

“Hey man, you okay?”

“Yeah, just tired, you know?” Okay, so maybe that’s not the _whole_ truth, but it’s close enough. Jason just nods, reassured by his words.

“Oh yeah, Coach’s being a real hardass on us lately. Is he always this bad around semis?” 

“Pretty much?” James shrugs, “but I think he's going a little harder this year. Must think we have a better chance or something.”

Jason laughs. “Need a ride home?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Nah,” James starts, “finally got the belt fixed on my truck.”

Jason nods, “Cool. See you tomorrow, I’ll bring some coffee in the morning,” he waves, turning towards the parking lot. James’ heart knocks against his rib cage. 

“Wait!”

Jason turns, confusion etched across his face. _Now or never_ , James thinks. He digs in the pocket of his jean jacket, producing a shittily-wrapped rectangle before shoving it in Jason’s direction. Jason takes it gingerly.

“This is for you.” James says, breathless, “It's a tape. That I- that I made, with songs that I think you'll like. You don't have to like it, though! I just-”

“James,” Jason's smile is soft and warm, slightly crooked, “I’ll love it ‘cause you made it.” He tears the paper gently, taking out the black cassette that's been lovingly hand-lettered. He traces over the song titles, grin growing ever wider before he clutches the tape close to his chest. 

“I’m gonna play this all the time. Thank you, James.”

Jason smiles before wishing him goodnight and walking to his car. James is frozen to the spot: he's pretty sure his heart’s burst. When he can function again, it takes him three tries to get his keys in the car door, his mind replaying the way Jason's lips moved, the way he'd said _I'll love it._

***

The next few games are gruelling: they get absolutely _slaughtered_. 

James can feel the frustration bubbling under his skin, senses the inky-black moodiness that has settled in the locker room with each successive loss, an oppressive despondency. 

Coach’s pissed. Practice starts earlier, ends later. 

Jason’s always in his mind, now, and James aches to the _bone._

***

They manage to secure a spot for the finals, beating out the Las Vegas Aviators in a landslide victory of 6-1.

The whole team’s thrumming with nervous anticipation. It crackles in the air at practices, ever-present. James wouldn't consider himself to be a superstitious person, but he begins falling into old habits, too nervous to even entertain the possibility of jinxing their shot at the championship. 

Him and Jason seem to dance around this thing they're becoming, like they both know what they want but are too nervous to make the first step. Maybe he's gotta be the brave one: all his life, James’ never been one to instigate, preferring to be a follower instead of a leader. But he knows he's gotta do this, knows he’s gotta do it _right_.

So he brushes up to Jason after practice and asks him if he'd like to go for a drive. Jason smiles, that huge 1000-watt grin, nodding along enthusiastically. They bolt from the building to James’ blue pickup truck, tossing their bags in the back and speeding out of the lot.

James takes them along the back roads, along scenic overpasses and down along the beach. They leave the windows open, letting the salty breeze pass through, electrifying their senses. The evening’s still warm, the sun beginning its slow descent, lighting up the sky in hues of orange and pink. The sunlight dances across Jason’s face. James feels overwhelmingly free, the only thing in his mind _Jason_ , just _Jason_ , his smile and his laugh and his raspy voice.

James parks the truck on a secluded overlook, the beach far below but the salt-tinged air ever present. The radio’s playing quietly, Neil Young’s _Cowgirl in the Sand_ crackling with static.

_Can I stay here for a while,_

_Can I see your sweet sweet smile..._

“Fuck, what a view,” Jason whispers, leaning up slightly to see the waves sparkle and crash against the sand. James only has eyes for him.

“Jase…” James’s voice peters out slightly, nerves getting to him. Jason must hear the hesitancy in his voice, because he turns to look at him with concern all over his face.

“You okay, James?” Jason says, voice quiet and concerned.

James nods, jerky and nervous, “I just- I gotta. I gotta tell you something, and. It’s important, but like…” 

Jason reaches across the seats, placing his hand gently on James’. It’s grounding, reassuring. James feels the warmth from Jason’s fingers, the slight catch of calluses instantly familiar. 

“It’s cool, James. Don’t worry.”

James feels his guts tie themselves into knots. He swallows, steeling himself. He hears Kirk’s voice in his head, _be honest with him,_ and James knows what he has to do.

“I- Okay. Just- promise this won’t fuck anything up between us?”

James sees the flicker of emotions across Jason’s face: worry, confusion, understanding. 

“Of course, James. I’d-”

“I like you.”

Jason’s mouth clicks shut. Everything comes out in a sudden rush because all his self-control has gone out the window. It’s like verbal vomit. 

“I like you, like, a lot. Like, at first I thought you were kind of stuck-up but then I realized that that’s just like, your resting face, and you’re really good at baseball and I thought at first I just wanted to be friends with you but you’re also really hot and like-”

Jason crushes their mouths together, hands coming up to thread through James’ long, fluffy hair. Their teeth click before they get the angle right, Jason sliding across the seats slightly to meet James’ height, James pulling Jason into him.

It’s good, _so_ good. 

Jason’s lips slide against his, slick and slow, kisses bleeding into each other, long and deep. They part with a gasp for air, cheeks pink. James watches the way Jason’ bottom lip quivers. Jason giggles, hands cupping James’ face, sliding into the space between James’ legs. 

“ _Fuck_ , James, you have _no_ idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” Jason smiles against his cheek.

“How-how long?” James is amazed he’s even able to form words, considering how distracting Jason’s mouth is.

Jason laughs, breathlessly, leaning in to bite at James’ reddened bottom lip. “Long fucking time, _baby_.”

James feels his cheeks turn pink. He lets one hand slide down Jason’s back, grabbing his ass. Jason gives a pleased little hum, leaning in again, tongue sliding wetly at the seam of James’ lips. James feels like a raw nerve, fraying at the seams, his heart going 90 miles an hour. Jason breaks the kiss with a slick little _pop!_ to mouth along James’ neck.

“I really like you,” Jason whispers, his lips brushing against the underside of James’ jaw. “Like, a lot. So much. I listened to your tape on like, repeat, for days.” 

James laughs, dragging him back up for another kiss. 

***

The stadium’s absolutely _packed-_ a veritable sea of red and gold, fans cheering and blowing air horns. It’s a home game against El Paso, and James can tell the fans are desperate for them to win. 

Jason’s all nervous energy, bouncing from foot to foot next to James. James laughs under his breath, remembering what Kirk had said to him a few weeks ago. 

_They’d been cleaning up, watching as Jason had darted across the field, collecting the spare balls. Kirk had wiped his brow, stretching out his shoulders. “Jesus, he’s like a fucking superball on crack,” Kirk had griped, and James had snorted a laugh, ‘cause it was true. Jason’s energy was unmatched, and it was kinda cute how’d always bounce wherever he’d go, as if needing an outlet for his restlessness._

Jason fidgets next to him, readjusting his glove. James bumps his shoulder against Jason’s, silently reveling in the way Jason smiles up at him, as if he’s the only one in the world. 

Coach’s already gone through plans, Cliff’s already given them a motivational speech: now they’re just waiting for the announcer to call them out, the cheer of the fans echoing in the hallway, a deafening hum in his ears, second only to the pounding of his heart.

“And now, the team you’ve all been waiting for… the Grizzlies!”

The jog onto the field electrifies him: James feels it bubble under his skin, race through his veins. He prays, silently, for a shutout. This might be one of the last times Cliff and Dave play with them- they’re older players, been in the league for longer, and they’re likely going to move up to the majors. James wants to win for them, one last time.

It’s close, not quite a shutout, but they’ve been on the ball all evening, hardly letting any runs past. They’ve managed to push it 4-3 by the seventh inning, and James can feel their collective exhaustion, the nerves wearing them down.

Jason’s pitching. He looks 10 feet tall from his place at the mound, glowing in the bright stadium lights. They already have 2 outs, and James locks eyes with his teammates, can tell they’re all praying for a third. 

Jason looks at him, nods his head once, hard.

He winds up, head held high. The balls fly like bullets, straight to Cliff’s glove, one after the other. The commentators call _OUT!_ and James feels them all collectively lose their shit, rushing to surround Jason at the mound. They crash into each other with the kind of careless force that comes from ecstasy, shouting and laughing, Kirk screaming _fuck yeah, fuck yeah_ in his ear, Jason’s smile absolutely blinding from where his teammates have clustered around him. Distantly, James can see them hoisting the trophy in the air, Lars yelling about a party at his house to celebrate. James crushes Jason against him, their teammates pressed all around.

“You beauty,” James whispers, hugging Jason close, “you beauty, I love you.”

***

Lars’ house is already crowded by the time they arrive after the game, stereo blaring _Deep Purple_. There’s beers piled in the bathtub with ice, the crush of bodies dancing in the living room, teammates and girlfriends and other friends all here for the free booze.

Jason grabs him a bright-green jello shot and takes a red one for himself. It tastes like key lime and _burns_ on the way down, so James knows it's good.

They end up slam-dancing next to Cliff and his girlfriend Corinne, Dave and Kirk weaving through the crowd in their direction with beers. Lars shows up with an empty bottle of Stolichnaya and they play spin-the-bottle, laughing as some drunk girl makes out with Kirk and Dave’s jaw clenches. They cheer on Cliff and Corinne as they absolutely _crush_ Marty and Nick at beer pong: Marty’s decent, but Nick is absolutely _tragic_. Dave and Kirk compete to see who can shotgun more beers and they laugh when Kirk drops his can and it explodes all over the floor. The music's loud and it's stiflingly hot, but James has never felt freer.

James pulls his shirt away, feeling the sweat pool against his back. Someone’s put _Pink Floyd_ on the turntable, Gilmour singing about the evils of money. Jason’s watching him, eyes filled with _want-_ James feels his heart leap, that familiar curl of arousal.

They squirm their way out of the crowd, James backing Jason into the empty kitchen and around the corner, up against the wall by the basement door.

Jason’s smiling, a secret little grin, fisting his hands in James’ t-shirt. He drags James down, lips trailing against the curve of his jaw, teeth nipping slightly. 

“You wanna get outta here?” 

James nods dumbly: his brain’s become increasingly one-track around Jason. Actually, it’s more like his dick’s just doing all the decision making.

The two of them beg out early, waving goodnight to their friends, ducking out the doorway. Cliff gives James a thumbs up, mouthing _use protection,_ and James feels his face go red.

They've screwed around in the past weeks when they've had the time, making out in the back of Jason's car and giving each other handies. Jason sucked his dick, too, which was _life-changing_ : James is kinda in love with the way Jason looks with his lips wrapped around his cock. But James can tell they both want _more_ , unable to contain their desires any longer.

They're both humming with anticipation, the drive _way_ too long. Jason leans over to fiddle with his belt loops, smoothes a hand down his zipper, and James bites back a groan. 

“Fuck, if you keep doing that we're gonna have a problem,” James laughs shakily, trying to focus on not missing the turnoff. Jason giggles breathlessly, fingers slipping in between his jeans and his boxers. 

James drives to his apartment since his roommate is out for the night. They're a mess, clinging to each other as they make it up the stairs, Jason’s lips across his neck distracting James from being able to find his keys in his pocket. 

They manage to get the door open, stumbling through and locking it behind them, careening towards the bedroom and collapsing onto the bed, wrapped around each other. They’re only focused on the wet slide of their lips, pulling apart with a gasp for air, James’ hands cupping Jason’s cheeks.

Jason tilts his head back, taking a moment to look around: he hasn't been to James’ place before. There's Zeppelin and Danzig posters mixed in with ones of San Fran Giants players all over the walls. There's a big turntable in the corner, a couple milk crates of records nearby, an acoustic guitar beside a big dresser overflowing with band t-shirts.

James smiles down at him, “Scoping out my digs?”

Jason grins back, “Course, man. Dirty bachelor pad, just my style.”

Jason’s giggle is infectious, his smile bright, dimples creased around his mouth.

“Wait, we should put something on. Just in case my roommate comes home early. ” James says, rolling off of Jason and leaning over the edge of his bed to comb through the crates. 

“What about Zeppelin?”

Jason helps set _Houses of the Holy_ on the turntable, fiddling with the volume before he drags James back onto the bed with a riotous laugh, grabbing for the hem of his shirt.

***

Later, with Jason below him moaning at each shove of his hips, James studies his face.

The room’s dim, the warm orange glow from the light on the nightstand the only illumination. Jason’s face is all flushed, pink and soft as his lips twitch with each quiet gasp. The light shifts across his cheek, over lips shiny with spit and swollen from kisses. James lets his fingers smooth down Jason’s stomach, enthralled with the way Jason writhes underneath him.

James wants to kiss along the soft trail of hair under his navel, across the sharp jut of his hip bones, between the pale freckles on his shoulders. He wants, he wants, he wants. 

_He’d gripped Jason by the hips, kissing his way across the small of his back. Jason had laughed, asked him ‘Isn’t my ass more interesting?’ and James had grinned against his skin, mouthing over the freckles on his shoulder. He’d murmured, ‘You’ve got the prettiest dimples,” and Jason had gone bright red, moaning as James had trailed his fingers across them, mesmerized by the bumps of Jason’s spine, the gentle divot right above the curve of his ass._

James groans, leaning in to kiss him again, letting his lips trail across Jason’s collarbones. He bites down, feeling more than hearing Jason’s groan, moaning at the way Jason’s hips buck up suddenly. He's giddy, laving his tongue across the reddened skin: James wants to mark him up, suck bruises into pale skin.

“James,” Jason moans, “I-I- _ahh, fuuu-uu-ck_.” 

James watches as Jason shudders beneath him, James’ fingers wrapped loosely around his dick. Jason’s eyes are half-lidded and he looks all fucked-out, whining at the feeling of James inside him. James feels a punch of arousal, eyes trailing down between Jason’s thighs to where he’s all slick with lube. It’s so, _so_ hot, the fire under his skin burning him from the inside out, a molten ball of heat settled in his guts.

“Yeah- _ah,_ baby? Fuck- I’m not- _ah!-_ gonna last.” 

James feels like he’s two seconds from coming. He slows down, pausing to catch his breath, trailing his fingers gently along the inside of Jason’s thigh where a bruise is rapidly purpling, teeth marks set into the skin.

Jason jerks as if he’s been punched, a filthy whine clawing up out of his chest. “ _Shit, more.”_ Jason sobs, eyes going hazy and unfocused at the slick, slow glide of James’ dick. “ _Right there, right- fuck, ah-_ ” 

_Fuck, fuck,_ he’s gonna die, right here, right now, and he doesn’t even care _._ James’s tongue slurs- _yeah, yeah, so good, so tight, god I love you fuck fuck-_ too love-drunk to care, snapping his hips as he leans forwards to kiss across Jason’s cheeks, feeling the warmth under his lips.

Jason moans, thighs shaking against his sides. His breath hitches before he comes, Jason clutching him close, _so so close_ , hands tangled together, everything going soft and fuzzy.

In the hazy afterglow, James lets himself drift, focusing on the gentle feeling of Jason’s finger tracing patterns across his arm, the two of them crumpled together under the covers. Jason turns over, tucking his face into the crook of James’ neck, pressing his lips ever-so-gently against a hickey that’s already beginning to flush, murmuring _I love you too._

James kisses him, their smiles intermingling.

***

Jason wears one of his shirts in the morning, an old grey henley that's been tossed across his dresser for months. It's been through the wash too many times, slightly see-through. Jason's sleepy, fiddling with James’ coffee machine, hair pulled into a spare ponytail and legs bare. The neck of the shirt is all stretched out: James can see a bunch of hickeys peeking out right above the collar.

Jason laughs when James tackles him back into bed.

***

Jason moves in a couple weeks later.

James’ roommate drops the news that they’re moving back home, days before the rent’s due, and James freaks out over the lease until Jason suggests that he should just move in instead.

 _My roommate wants to find a smaller place anyways,_ Jason had said, and that had been that.

Jason brings over his clothes and records and cutlery set, and they turn the second bedroom into a storage room of sorts. They buy an actual shelf for their records, installing it above the turntable, and then spend a whole afternoon sorting through them. They clean through the kitchen cabinets, stacking up spare pots, and they separate their clothes in the dresser, trying to keep some semblance of organization. Jason ends up stealing his shirts anyways.

They fall into a domestic routine now that they’re in the offseason, one of them cooking and the other washing the dishes afterwards. They go grocery shopping together and go on hikes and out biking in the mountains, and James takes Jason down to the beach as the season cools, the water frigid against their ankles. They cram into the shower once they’re back home, hot water sluicing down their backs as James presses Jason up against the tiles, fingering him open as Jason moans against his neck, writhing in his arms. Jason wears his shirts to bed, squirming between the covers and curling up against him. James wraps his arms tighter around Jason, letting the warmth of the blankets drag him to sleep.

***

It's funny, how they fall into each other, without pretense.

James has never been fond of those overly-clingy relationships, the ones where you can tell that they're compensating for shallow feelings. They're not like that, anyways, both of them perfectly fine on their own. And yet, there's something about the way they meld together, too, the way Jason fits beside him, their edges smoothed between. 

James knows he's shy, knows he's distrustful and can get standoffish when he's nervous. Jason's more open, but he also doggedly fixates on things that piss him off and his devil-may-care attitude worries James. They're both fucking stubborn: it's like oil and water, sometimes, the way they fight, all spitfire. But they've learned to understand each other: Jason knows that James needs the space and quiet to process on his own, and James knows that Jason needs to get out and expel his frustrations through movement. Then they're able to gel back together, hands smoothing over skin and quiet apologies whispered between, able to see past the haze of anger and process the other side clearly.

They balance each other out, enhance each other. There's a simultaneous dichotomy between gentle and abrasive, rowdy and tender, with the two of them. 

James knows there's no other way he'd want it. 

***

James stomps his cleats into the dirt, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. The sun licks across his back, warming his skin. The breeze feels good against his face, fresh and soft.

It’s a new season, new players filling out their ranks. Cliff got called up to majors to play for the Giants: there’d been a lot of teary goodbyes at the end of the last season, Cliff promising to visit them when he’d have time off.

 _James had been disappointed, somewhat. He'd hoped to make the Giants' roster, hoped to kickstart his professional career. He'd wondered if Jason had harboured the same feelings, the subtle sting of letdown. James had_ _asked, late one night, the two of them intertwined on the couch. Jason paused before shaking his head._ _"No," he'd murmured, "I haven't played in this league for long enough anyways. And not making it means I get to play with you for longer, too." Jason grinned, straddling James' hips. James had smiled, arching up to meet him as Jason had cupped his cheeks, kissing him gently._

James smiles to himself, thinking of the memory. He watches Dave and Jason warm up with the new catcher across the field, stretching out and falling back into routine.

James helps Lars pull the spare crates of balls out of the storage closet, hauling them out to the batting cages for warmups. Lars follows his line of sight, out to where Jason’s stretching in the grass, before smirking up at James.

“Told you things would work out fine,” he laughs, elbowing James in the side. James rolls his eyes, chucking Lars across the back of the head and nearly knocking his cap off.

“Yeah, yeah, you fucking gremlin, you were right,” but he’s smiling as he says it. 

Soon enough they’re wrapped up in drills. Kirk’s captain, now, and while he’s more jittery than Cliff ever was, he’s got the chops to lead them and James can tell he’s eager to prove that he’s ready, that he’ll be just as good as Cliff was, and James knows in his heart Kirk’s the right one for the job. 

Jason finds him in the dugout taking an extended water break towards the end of practice. 

“I was thinking we should get burgers,” Jason murmurs, the two of them watching as Kirk and Dave discuss with Coach new positions and plans for drills, Kirk kicking his feet in the dirt on the mound.

“Should we get take-out and eat on the couch? I saw you taped Ghostbusters, we could watch that again.”

Jason laughs, “You know me so well.”

James smiles, tucking his fingers into the back-pocket of Jason’s pants, leaning in to kiss Jason’s upturned face in the obscured half-darkness of the dugout.

“Well, yeah," James says, “Think I'd better know what you like, since, like, I love you. Duh.”

That gets a laugh, Jason's nose scrunching up as he knocks his shoulder against James'.

"Smartass," he snickers, raising on his toes to kiss James again.

***

**Author's Note:**

> songs appearing in the fic:
> 
> since i've been loving you - led zeppelin
> 
> dreams - fleetwood mac
> 
> cowgirl in the sand - neil young
> 
> tumblr @[pinkmaggitmp3](https://pinkmaggitmp3.tumblr.com)
> 
> <3


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